


Old London Town

by Sarlania



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarlania/pseuds/Sarlania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reunion, fifty years after Illya and Napoleon first meet at Trafalgar Square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old London Town

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Down the Chimney Exchange at Muncle. Thanks to Periwinkle27 for the beta. Thanks also to several people who have provided me with information about London at Christmas time, including Bluemeanybeany and Mylodon.

London.

There are two cities with that name, located within the same physical space, separated not by time but by what the eye chooses to perceive. One London is a bustling modern metropolitan - the heart of a nation near the apex of economical, political and military might. Glass and metal structures that catch the pale winter sun rise up from the sea of normality, trumpeting status and self-importance. The people and shops and cars tell a story of the new era, technology driven, obsessed with glamour and ostentation, with brands and image.

Then there’s the other London, the London of ghosts and drifting memories. Those who are aware of it walk through the streets and see over a millennia’s worth of London’s history imprinted upon the concrete paths. This was where Pepys walked on his way home to his Elizabeth. Jackie Kennedy came to this store. That was the road Sir Horatio Nelson traveled down to leave to take control of the Mediterranean, and came back in an oak coffin. And beneath the staggering weight of modern buildings and apartments are the remains of wooden huts and Roman fortifications, bits of history forever lost unless some great cataclysm rends apart the fabric of the city.

This is where the story began. Has begun. Will begin.

***

As Illya Kuryakin walked down the Strand with as much speed his body would allow, he was keenly aware of both Londons pressing in around him, jostling for his attention in a manner that reminded him of the way girls used to fight for the eyes of a certain friend of his. (His best friend, if someone had asked him to categorize.) Here was Essex House, built for Queen Elizabeth’s suitor and close friend Robert Dudley. Along here, Dickens, Thackeray and Huxley resided.

There was also another ghost. The ghost of his many decades younger self was walking down this street very much as he did now. Soft footsteps of a lighter man pattered beside him, each stride more vigorous than his own, uninhibited by arthritis and the cruel castigation of age. The young man had worn a thin coat and turned its collar up against the wind, which did absolutely nothing to protect from the icy blast of the London winter. It was the coldest winter for many years. The Thames had frozen over and people were ice-skating on the surface. Later, Illya found out about the frost fairs that used to be held on that river up to the 19th century, and thought it amusing if not dreadfully bourgeois.

There was another thing, too. Fifty years ago, to this very day and hour, his younger self had walked this path, body throbbing nervous anticipation at the sort of reception he would receive. But he had been a very different sort of person back then. He had been highly idealistic, full of grandiose notions of fighting against evil for world peace and equality. He smiled a tight smile at the memory. He wasn’t sure his younger self would recognize this version of Illya, accustomed as he was to a lifestyle more decadent, and a society less stringent, that he had ever imagined possible.

Trafalgar Square loomed suddenly before him; Nelson’s column jutting majestically upwards into the darkening London sky. He stared briefly at the small figure perched on top, a constant sentinel for the past hundred and fifty years over his beloved London, England. What memories did it have, locked up within its stone heart? Did it remember the times he came here, the time he scaled its full length? Illya blinked and looked away. He was not a sentimental person, but on this anniversary, he’ll allow himself the luxury of that weakness.

The traffic was quite heavy at this hour, rushing past him in a blur of noise and color, and suddenly, suddenly the world around him faded in a rush of memory.

 _Snow, falling thickly and softly, settled gently upon his hair as he stared apprehensively at Nelson’s column. The landscape reminded him a little of Lenin Square, all gray concrete enveloped in the winter frost, a pillar of national pride and glory the centerpiece. The streets were strangely empty at this hour. Despite the cold, his palms, fisted inside his trouser pockets, were damp with sweat. There would be, he knew, no going back from this meeting. His life, already tossed and turned upon the tide of international politics, was about to be thrown into another stretch of ocean just as wild and as unfamiliar._

 _He shivered and rocked on his heels. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and prepared to cross -_

 _A heavy hand landed on_ his shoulders. He was expecting it, but the sudden movement still caught him off guard and he flinched away from the touch.

“Well, at least you didn’t tackle me onto the ground this time,” said a familiar voice that had lost none of its smooth smugness since they last saw each other.

Illya grinned. “And you are still the stupid, clumsy American who trips over his own feet so often that being flung upon the ground was nothing you hadn’t experienced over a hundred times.” He turned around.

Napoleon was wearing his customary Savile Row suit, over which he’d thrown a bulky trench coat, dark scarf and a hat that almost covered his eyes. He smiled at Illya beneath layers of wool and synthetic, his lined face crinkling with delight. “Hello Illya.”

There is, thought Illya, absolutely nothing wrong with two old friends exchanging a passionate hug in the middle of one of London’s busiest areas. After all, friendships such as theirs are hard to come by.

***

In the old days they would have met over a bottle of wine, or vodka and brandy. But those days of drinking into the night had passed. The coffee – black, two sugars – was scalding but Illya swallowed it anyway, rejoicing in the burn as it traveled down his esophagus before settling contently in his stomach. The taste was rich, smoky and unfamiliar in his mouth. It had been ages since he last drank this brew, but he was surprised to find his reacquaintance not entirely unpleasant. Enjoyable, in fact. Nostalgic, even. But then again, that was exactly why he had ordered it in the first place.

Napoleon grinned. He sat opposite Illya with elbows pressed against the table, and his own drink cupped between his palms. “You should see your face right now, Illya. You wore that exact same expression when we first came here.”

“You remember a facial expression I made fifty years ago?” Illya frowned skeptically over the rim of his cup. “Napoleon, your memory’s good – or it was good.” Napoleon smirked. “But not that good. I do not think you will remember something that trivial.”

Napoleon looked affronted. “But it wasn’t trivial, Illya. Not to me.”

They were at The Embankment Café; a cozy and inexpensive little establishment only few minutes walk from Trafalgar Square. Napoleon had chuckled when Illya appropriated a table at the back of the café and sat in the chair with a clear view of the door. Old habits died hard.

Illya finished his coffee and placed the empty cup on the table. “My reaction to the decadence of Western lifestyle was a curiosity to you, then, was it?”

Napoleon shrugged, but the corners of his lips tugged upwards. “Up to that moment, you were just another agent to me, though a highly skilled one at that. We had talked, if you recall, about Mr. Waverley’s offer, or rather I had talked and you remained mostly silent and uncommunicative. It was only when you drank that cup of coffee – I still can’t believe it was your first time - that the ice melted. It was the first bit of genuine emotion I saw you display, Illya. Of course I’ve stored it in my memory.”

Illya nodded. He didn’t trust his voice to speak right now. His mind was all over the place, his thoughts trying to make sense of Napoleon’s words and implications. Even after fifty years of friendship, after countless missions and near-death moments when they bared their souls to each other, Napoleon was still able to surprise him. Toes and fingertips tingled as he remembered how Napoleon had asked him if he would like to be his partner only a few minutes after he drank that coffee… _Oh!_

Napoleon nodded and his smile broadened.

It wasn’t as if he had never wondered why Napoleon chose him, just like that, out of the blue. It was hardly standard U.N.C.L.E. procedure. Usually there needed to be some period of acquaintance between prospective partners, but he and Napoleon just seemed to click from the get go. During the past fifty years, Illya had always thought, assumed, that Waverley had saddled them together with that innate knowledge he always seemed to have that they’ll work well as partners. He never imaged that Napoleon had been given a choice, like picking clothes at an expensive, high-end fashion store, and somehow stumbled across a suit that he like and fitted his body like a glove.

It was something of a revelation.

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak. Hesitated momentarily, the lines deepening along his forehead. “To be honest, I was a little apprehensive when Waverley first told me about you. A Russian, and a former KBG member to boot.”

“That I knew.” It was Illya’s turn to shrug and smile. “Do not worry, Tovarisch, I was used to far worse than that. It was a perfectly natural reaction, given the political climate surrounding our countries.”

“That didn’t make it any righter. U.N.C.L.E. was supposed to be above all that.”

Illya shook his head. “Now that is just your idealism talking, Napoleon. You and I both know official policies never translated well from paper.”

Napoleon looked thoughtful. “I have always liked to think of myself as an optimistic and unprejudiced person. That I had those misgivings about you was highly out of character.”

“You are a sanguine person.” Illya grinned playfully. “And did our first meeting restore the disequilibrium of your character?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said slowly. “Yes, I believe it did.”

***

They walked back towards Trafalgar Square afterwards, reminiscing about past times and old friends. It was fully dark now and the lights on the Christmas tree blazed out in their fullest glory. Strains of Schubert’s Ave Maria floated from the choir standing before the tree, becoming louder as he and Napoleon approached the crowd gathered enthralled around the singers.

“Do you remember what we talked about when we were here fifty years ago?” Napoleon wondered as they applauded the end of the song with the crowd.

“I remember you made some joke about the tree, and Norway. Something about it measuring diplomatic relationships between the two countries?”

Napoleon laughed. “Seriously, Illya -”

“You did! We were sitting next to that fountain over there. Your feeble attempt at being funny actually worked for once. Made me smile. And then you followed that by talking about the pigeons, and Nelson.”

“Do you remember that affair when THRUSH tried to replace Nelson with a sub-ether emotive converter?”

“Yes,” said Illya deprecatingly. “And I had to climb up the column to prevent it, while you were busy seducing a girl. A Miss Chumley, I believe.”

“Who had information about THRUSH’s new base of operations.”

“Which she gave you two hours before I climbed the column.”

“She had more information to give.”

“In our hotel bedroom?”

“She was very insistent upon certain conditions.”

Illya grinned, a retort issuing from his lips with the smooth ease of fifty years of practice. It was so easy to ignore the aches and pains in his body, to overlook the lines creeping across their faces, and fall back into their old teasing antagonism. _Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._ London’s ghosts are back again. He could see their younger selves now, walking across the floodlit square as the choir sang of angels and ships. Napoleon, dark-haired, suave, relaxed. And himself. Messy blond hair flapping in the breeze. Walk - more catlike, predatory.

It was amazing, Illya thought, that a friendship that was born in bloodshed and war could endure for so long. His younger self had imagined that, in the unlikely event he and Napoleon survived U.N.C.L.E., their personalities, avocations and personal philosophies were too different for them to form a lasting relationship outside work. He envisioned that they would just drift apart, as easily as two leaves carried away by a slow, eddying current. The fifteen years after Napoleon walked out the door of Del Floria’s seemed to prove that. And yet, they had found themselves drawn together once again. It seemed that the years and experiences they shared had linked them inexorably for life.

He remembered a British show he watched decades ago, after one of those rare missions that left Napoleon and himself exhausted but otherwise unharmed. He couldn’t remember much about the episode itself, but there was a quote that stuck and resonated in his mind. The little man in the fur coat, whose eyes sparkled with unmitigated joy and excitement, had said to his companions: _“Our lives are different from anybody else's. That's the exciting thing. Because nobody in the universe can do what we're doing.”_

Illya knows now why he and Napoleon have remained steadfast friends over the decades. Those exciting things they did – the adrenaline fuelled missions – made them feel alive in a way drugs or alcohol or sex could not. It breathed life into their restless limbs, innervating muscles and tendons. And now, when time has taken away their youthful vigor, whenever they write, email, text and talk to each other, it reignites that memory of their past experiences. It makes them feel alive once more.

And that, he thinks, is wonderful.


End file.
